Friday Night News and Drills
Coach Stone’s condo smelled like pizza before Wells even knocked.
That was a good sign.
Wells stood outside the door with a duffle bag over one shoulder and a six-pack of good Canadian imported beer tucked under his arm. Not cheap beer. Coach had been very clear about that. The man had standards. Pizza, protein, discipline, and beer that did not taste like regret.
Wells smiled to himself and knocked.
The door opened a moment later.
Coach Stone filled the frame like he owned it.
Black cap. Strong arms. That familiar steady look. The kind of look that could make a player straighten his posture without being told.
“You’re on time,” Coach said.
“Seven sharp,” Wells replied, lifting the beer. “And I brought the good stuff.”
Coach’s eyes dropped to the pack, then back to Wells.
“Good boy.”
The words hit warmer than Wells expected.
He stepped inside, trying not to grin too hard, and set the beer on the kitchen counter. Coach’s condo was clean, masculine, and ordered in that very Coach Stone way. The pizza boxes were already waiting on the table: Meat lovers and Canadian, exactly as promised. Plates were stacked. Glasses were ready. Everything had its place.
Except the duffle bag.
Coach noticed it immediately.
“Planning on moving in, Gold?”
Wells shrugged, casual, but not casual enough.
“Brought a change of clothes.”
Coach raised an eyebrow.
“Confident.”
“Prepared,” Wells corrected.
Coach gave a low chuckle and turned toward the fridge. “Sit down before you start making yourself useful.”
Wells did sit, but the news pressed against him so hard he barely touched the first slice. Coach noticed that too. Of course he did. Coach Stone noticed everything: missed steps, lazy posture, bad form, nervous silence.
After a few bites, Coach leaned back in his chair.
“All right,” he said. “Report.”
Wells set his slice down.
The room seemed to still.
“I talked to the right people,” he said. “The Captains know what you’ve done for me. They know how much the players respect you. They know you’ve already been working with a lot of us, and that we listen to you.”
Coach Stone’s expression tightened, just slightly.
Wells reached down into the duffle bag and pulled out the black box.
It was simple. Clean. Sharp.
A black box tied with a gold ribbon.
He placed it on the table between them.
“They want you,” Wells said. “The Golden Army would love to take you on as Coach for the players.”
Coach Stone looked at the box.
For once, he did not answer right away.
The man who always had the next order ready, the next correction loaded, the next command waiting on his tongue, went quiet.
Wells pushed the box toward him.
“Open it.”
Coach pulled the gold ribbon loose and lifted the lid.
Inside, folded with care, was a shiny metallic gold polo shirt. Across the back, in bold black letters, it read:
COACH STONE
Beneath it was a shiny metallic spandex compression shirt, also gold, also marked in black across the back:
COACH STONE
Coach touched the fabric slowly, running his fingers over the metallic shine.
Wells watched him take it in.
“No jersey,” Wells said softly. “You’re not one of the players. You’re Coach. So we figured you needed something that showed that.”
Coach Stone’s jaw worked once.
Then he looked up.
“You did this?”
“I asked. They agreed.”
Coach gave a short breath that was almost a laugh, but not quite. Something heavier sat underneath it.
“You know what this means?”
“Yeah,” Wells said. “It means you’re staying.”
The words hung there between them.
Coach closed the box with one hand, but kept the other resting on top of it.
“I wanted to stay before they said yes,” he said. “This just makes it official.”
Wells nodded, but his throat felt tight.
Coach stood, went to the counter, and opened two beers. He handed one to Wells, then raised his bottle.
“To the Golden Army,” Coach said.
Wells lifted his beer.
“To Coach Stone.”
Their bottles clinked.
Coach held Wells’ gaze for a long second before drinking.
They ate after that, slower now. Easier. The pressure had broken. The room warmed around them with the smell of pizza, cold beer, and something that had been building for weeks but had finally been given space to breathe.
Coach admitted he had thought about leaving more than once. Not because he wanted to. Because the UK contract had been tempting, clean, professional, obvious. A career move. A safe decision.
“But then the attacks happened,” Coach said, voice low. “At the match. Then at your concert. Seeing you hit like that, seeing how fast everything can change…”
He stopped and looked down at his beer.
Wells said nothing.
Coach continued.
“That was when I knew. The contract didn’t matter. Not compared to this. Not compared to the team. Not compared to you.”
Wells felt the words settle deep.
Coach looked back at him.
“You became important, Wells. Too important to walk away from.”
Wells smiled, smaller this time.
“Good,” he said. “Because I wasn’t planning on letting you.”
Coach smirked.
“There’s that attitude.”
“Player confidence.”
“Needs discipline.”
“Probably.”
They finished dinner with the easy rhythm of two men who had already crossed some invisible line and were only waiting to admit it out loud. Wells helped clear the table. Coach told him he stacked plates wrong. Wells told Coach he was impossible. Coach told Wells he was teachable.
Then Wells glanced toward the black box.
“You should try it on.”
Coach followed his gaze.
“The polo?”
Wells shook his head.
“The compression shirt.”
Coach’s eyebrow lifted.
“For official evaluation?”
“For fit,” Wells said. “And maybe performance.”
Coach’s smirk returned slowly.
“You asking for extra training, Gold?”
Wells stepped closer.
“I was thinking you could run me through some drills.”
The room went quiet again, but this time it was different.
The metallic fabric caught the light, bright and sharp and unmistakably Golden Army.
Then he looked at Wells.
“Bedroom,” Coach said.
Wells grabbed his duffle bag.
“Yes, Coach.”
Friday night belongs to the Gold. Under the stadium lights, the Bros train harder, move as one, and drill until weakness burns away. Join the Golden Army, take your place on the field, and let Coach Stone and the team shape you into something stronger. Contact @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125